


Please Bruise Me

by SophinaBlackwood



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-02-26 06:04:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13229580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophinaBlackwood/pseuds/SophinaBlackwood
Summary: To Mustafa Ali, the idea of being in a relationship with Adrian Neville is a foreign one, but oddly enjoyable when given the chance.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wanted to post this all in one go but have been hit with some nasty writers block I'm trying my best to work through! So, chapters it is! Please let me know if you like this- your feedback is always motivational!

Mustafa’s been in this situation before. Pulsing music. Dimmed lighting. Alcohol tingling through his body as he stands face to face with an attractive man mere seconds from midnight.

_Ten!_

But it’s never felt like this.

“I used to hate you,” Mustafa says, blushing.

“Oh yeah? I wanted you dead,” Neville says with a small smile, brushing something off Mustafa’s face.

_Nine!_

Mustafa reaches up to feel his forehead, and his hand comes away sticky with glitter. “It’s everywhere.”

_Eight!_

“You’re very pretty,” Neville smirks, though his tone is too earnest for it to have been a joke.

_Seven!_

“I know, Mustafa jokes. The air feels heavier than normal. It always does around Neville. He’s magnetising.

“I know you know,” Neville shoots back, without a beat.

_Six!_

Neville’s hands slide around Mustafa’s hips. There are steaming, intrusive bodies all around them, sometimes brushing up against them, but Mustafa only feels Neville.

“People might see,” Mustafa inhales sharply, his hands pressing onto Neville’s with caution.

_Five!_

“I don’t mind,” Neville says seriously.

Mustafa’s heart skips a beat. “You’re certain?”

_Four!_

Neville pulls him closer, breath ghosting over Mustafa’s neck. “Yes,” he rumbles, low and intense. The affirmation should be lost in the dense atmosphere but Mustafa hears him as clear as day.

_Three!_

Mustafa’s eyes flutter close. Neville’s presence is overwhelming and he can’t help it when the words tumble stupidly from his mouth.

“I love you.”

_Two!_

Neville pulls away, and Mustafa panics, but his expression is so soft and warm, he looks like a completely different person. Mustafa wonders how many people have ever seen his face so serene.

“Yeah, well, I love you too,” he murmurs, a hint of insecurity in his otherwise confident tone as he leans in to ghost against Mustafa’s mouth. “Happy new year.”

_One!_

All Mustafa can do is nod weakly and remember to breathe as Neville presses a kiss to his bottom lip and sucks gently. As Mustafa regains his wherewithal, he responds only to slide his tongue into Neville’s warm, wonderful mouth. What seems like too soon (it’s always too soon), Neville pulls away slightly, the kiss having sent Mustafa’s mind reeling.

They stare at each other and it resonates deeply in Mustafa’s chest. Neville eyes are glazed with lust, and- unbelievably- _love_. It’s not just that Neville is the only thing Mustafa sees.

“Happy new year,” Mustafa whispers back.

Neville is the only thing there is.


	2. Cruel and Unusual Sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a chilly October 2nd, and the Cruiserweight division is about to be changed forever.

A few months ago, Mustafa wanted nothing more than to pin Neville in the middle of the ring and rip that aubergine Championship from his undeserving hands. And now?

Now, Mustafa wasn’t sure much of anything anymore.

Why, at No Mercy, had Neville just stood there as Enzo Amore held the title hostage? Why didn’t he move, even as Mustafa screamed “ _do something_ ” at the backstage feed? Something had been off that night. Neville’s zealous gaze had been cracked. Mustafa remembers, but he’s never sure of why.

Mustafa hates that Neville hesitated. He despises him for it.

Mustafa’s heart is just as heavy as he pushes out onto the roof of the arena. It’s an unusually icy night for October, but he’s used to frigid temperatures. It was just announced that Kalisto is joining 205 Live. Mustafa tells himself to be happy. Instead, there’s a vague apprehension settling over his shaky nerves.

“Jealousy,” he whispers to himself in despair.

Kalisto deserves the opportunity, Mustafa keeps telling himself, yet in his heart of hearts, he knows it isn’t genuine. _He_ wanted that opportunity so desperately. He would’ve given anything for a title shot. Even so, winning the title off Enzo wouldn’t feel right. Enzo Amore was not royalty. It had to be Neville.

Mustafa wanted to dethrone The King.

A sudden clang frightens Mustafa from his thoughts and he stumbles backwards into the darkness of the roof just as Neville himself appears through the exit door.

“ _Christ,_ ” Mustafa breathes, holding a hand over his chest as he slinks behind a giant air-conditioning vent. 

It seems that Neville had the same idea to retire to the roof to grapple with his thoughts. He burst through the door with such vigor that Mustafa wonders if he hadn’t ran up all twenty-five flights of stairs from backstage, though he’d barely broken a sweat. Neville kicks the door as it closes and does a 180 twirl to yell heartbreakingly into the night air. His voice cracks as his lungs expel every cubic millimetre of air until it peters out into a raspy ghost of a cry. The sound lingers in Mustafa’s ears even when it’s ceased and for some reason he’s never felt so guilty in his life.

“Really?” Neville says to the moon, as if it’s an old friend. “Fuckin’ Kalisto? I practically gotta break the door down for my own title shot and they just give him one on a golden platter.” Neville smoothes his curly mane back and tucks it around one shoulder. Mustafa numbly threads his fingers through his own uncooperative hair, chest heaving.

 _He has every right to be furious_ , Mustafa admits, watching as Neville walks closer to the threshold of the roof.

“What about the others?” Neville asks, and Mustafa’s heart rate picks up, extremely aware that he’s audience to a soliloquy he shouldn’t be privy to. “ _They’re_ toutin’ that that pillock’s makin’ this all relevant. Well I bloody well know there’s thirteen other much more deserving crui-”

Neville suddenly presses a hand over his mouth as if to stop the uncharacteristic words that are spilling out. Mustafa mimics him, but to stifle a shocked moan. The revelation that somewhere deep down Neville actually _cares_ about the rest of the roster is too overwhelming. He places his other hand on the vent shaft to stabilize himself, but it slips and his shoulder crashes into the hollow metal, causing a deafening bang.

“Shit!” Mustafa yelps, reeling back to nurse his arm. _Ah, fuck, that hurts._

When he looks up, Neville has indeed been made aware of his presence as he stares agog at his eavesdropper. 

“Look, Neville, I-” Mustafa takes a few panicked steps forward but pauses as Neville takes an equal amount back. He half expects Neville to storm over and lock him into one of those painful rings of saturn but the man just continues to stand there, staring, chest rising and falling in short motions. Neville’s face is blank, as if he can’t even summon up the ghost of a scowl without the confidence of the Cruiserweight Championship. Mustafa’s heart clenches in an extremely painful way.

Neville sighs, shoulders falling, and turns away to lean on the roof’s concrete bannister. For a moment, Mustafa allows himself to gaze over Neville’s form. The sculpt of his chest. His rounded, broad shoulders. The curve of his thighs just visible in the moonlight before the rest of him gets shrouded in shadow. Tonight, he is a beautiful, haunting visage.

It was a difficult realisation for Mustafa to make that he was indeed attracted to Neville. Obsessed, really. It was probably the reason why his blossoming relationship with Jack Gallagher had gone to shit. A pang of guilt strikes Mustafa in the chest at that particular memory. Cedric had tried to convince him to make amends with Jack. Be with him. Fix it. Instead, Mustafa doubled down on his suffocating obsession with Neville.

It broke Jack’s heart. They haven’t spoken since.

Then, Enzo Amore showed up like some unfashionable alien rat. Amore winning the crown was not how things were supposed to go.

Mustafa takes a deep breath and steps carefully towards Neville, as if he were a wild animal prone to being frightened away.

“May I speak plainly to you?” Mustafa says.

Neville eyes him for a moment, yet stays silent. 

“Please,” Mustafa tries, failing to not sound needy. “There’s just.. _something_ I need to say.” Neville turns his head fully, staring at Mustafa with such vitriol that his stomach bottoms out with dread.

_What other chance are you going to have? Now or never. Just say it, Ali._

“I don’t think he deserves that title shot,” Mustafa says, swallowing his fear but ends up feeling like he needs to puke. “Kalisto.”

Neville holds his gaze for a moment, then just shrugs, looking back out into the cityscape. “Sure he does.”

Mustafa cringes, it pains him to speak ill of his peers, but truth is sometimes stronger than loyalty. “We _all_ touched Enzo after you, thus the contract should’ve been made void. Then you should’ve got your rematch. I didn’t expect-”

“He deserves it, mate. Let it go,” Neville shuts Mustafa down. Amazingly, where Neville’s humility should’ve made Mustafa jump with glee, it only makes him tremble with rage.

“It’s not fair,” Mustafa goes on. “You gave up your opportunity for the division- _for us_ \- and an outlier gets rewarded because of it.”

Neville keeps his eyes trained in front of him.

“Well? Doesn’t that make you angry?” Mustafa presses.

“Of course it does,” Neville bites back, that dark temper rising.

Mustafa swallows anxiously, his heart is racing with exhilaration; something else stirring deeper- lower. Caught up in the moment, Mustafa continues shakily. “You were so brave.” The tips of his fingers feel numb. “So.. _selfless_.”

“Because of you,” Neville replies without hesitation.

“Huh?” Mustafa says breathlessly. He blinks, confusion and elation fighting him within equal measure. Neville’s voice was so earnest, Mustafa knows it must’ve been a mistake.

_Because of me?_

Neville eyes him skeptically. “What?”

"You said _because of me_. What does that mean?"

Neville’s pupils shrink in panic. "I never said that.. I-It doesn’t mean anything," he blurts out, body radiating heat. Perhaps he hadn’t meant to say it? Or thought it, and accidentally said it.

"Yes it does,” Mustafa takes a step forward.

"Fuck off. No, it doesn't,” Neville yells, backing up.

"No. _Please_ ,” Mustafa moves much closer, his gaze straining with desperation. “Don't lie to me, King. Not now. Not after-"

"I said, piss off!“ Neville roars.

Hurt strikes Mustafa to his core. He shifts on his feet uncomfortably, pushing hair out of his eyes. There’s an ugly thorn jabbing in Mustafa’s heart, and he’s sure this interaction is the only chance he’ll ever have and he’s going to burn up inside if he fucks it up.

Why does everything have to be so complicated with Neville?! With Jack, it was easy. That man was a master communicator. Problems were sorted out in a heartbeat. At least, until Mustafa no longer wanted those problems sorted. Meanwhile, what is Neville so afraid of? And why is Mustafa so stupidly, head-over-heels desperate to help him?

 _You want to save him_ , his brain corrects him.

Neville winces and averts his eye. "Don't look at me like that."

Face flushing, Mustafa’s mouth stretches into a painful grin out of pure awkward instinct. He quickly stares at the ground, wishing that he could instead be invisible.

Never in his life, has he ever wanted to be invisible to Neville. Mustafa had gone out of his way to be a present, visible force to the King. Even it if meant the treasonous act of interrupting a speech. But right now, Mustafa prays to God that he could just disappear into the shadows and hide away forever.

"I.. I wish you'd been in my life,” Neville croaks in a voice so small Mustafa has to look up to make sure it had come from him. His hazel eyes are wide open, staring into the middle distance over Mustafa’s shoulder. “A year ago, when I started having these... thoughts.”

“Thoughts?” Mustafa asks quietly, heart pounding so loud he has to really keen his listening to Neville’s unreal words.

“Thoughts of disdain. Hatred. First it was at the company. Then, just, _everyone_. I always wondered, would anything be different if I had known you back then? Back, before..” Neville blinks upwards, and the moonlight catches the reflection of moisture in his eyes. “Would I have fallen so far?”

Mustafa really can’t stand this. Neville, who is usually so uncompromising and badass, looking so intensely vulnerable.

“I don’t like the person I’ve become, Ali,” Neville only meets Mustafa’s eye for a second before he sighs and turns his face away. The hand closest to Mustafa rests on the concrete banister. Mustafa stares at Neville’s fingers, feeling shaken and a little hollow.

Yet, he’s never felt so close to Neville in his life, because Mustafa’s been there. He knows what that feels like. Suddenly, he feels disturbingly sympathetic for a man who once dragged Mustafa limp body across the mats outside of the ring as an example not to oppose his sovereignty.

“It’s never too late to do better,” Mustafa’s voice comes out in a whisper, and he bravely places his hand on Neville’s.

 _Soft_ , Mustafa notes, involuntarily inhaling.

Neville wrenches his hand away almost immediately. He’s shaking his head, backing up and Mustafa's gut twists awfully at the realisation that, yes, he’s fucked this interaction up.

“I’m too far gone,” Neville implores. His fluffy, dry hair should make him look deranged but all Mustafa sees is a damaged soul crying out in pain. He remains completely helpless as Neville turns around and heads for the door.

“You've gone right when you realize when you do wrong,” Mustafa yells breathlessly. If there is anything he wishes Neville could take away from their bizarre conversation, he prays it’s that.

Neville pauses and turns his head, the light from the door lamp illuminating his picturesque profile. Then he pushes into the stairwell and is gone.

Adrenaline causes Mustafa’s head to spin and his knees to nearly buckle, so he kneels down onto the cool concrete and rests his head against it. It should help ground him, but it doesn’t. In the heavy silence, Mustafa whispers one of his many mantras to himself.

“ _Remember what you were fighting for in the first place, and try again_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this came out angstier than intended. Yay? Nay?
> 
> Thanks for your comments and support so far!


	3. Finding the Right Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neville walks out of Raw and Mustafa makes some extremely impulsive (idiotic?) decisions thereafter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered splitting this up into two separate chapters but what the heck, who cares about chapter length consistency. I hope you enjoy this one, I had a lot of fun writing all the little interactions!

Neville’s words from the roof haunt Mustafa for an entire week. The interaction plays in his mind over and over until he feels more zombie than human. It’s like he no longer sees the world as it is, only the same untrusting hazel eyes as he curls weights at the gym. His own trembling hand on Neville’s again and again as he showers. His paining heart as he stares at himself in the mirror and a phantom Neville gazes back, royal ire faltering. Mustafa tries his best to memorise Neville’s words, but he already knows the memory is no longer perfect.

 _Because of you,_ he had said.

When he sleeps, the conversation on the roof happens all over again, somehow clearer than in his waking memories. But sometimes it’s different. One time Neville throws a punch at him and they get into a fight on the hard, freezing ground. Another time Neville gets up on the concrete bannister, and tumbles over the edge before Mustafa can reach him. Last night, Neville doesn’t pull away when Mustafa reaches for him. This time Neville turns, their fingers interlock and his other hand comes to rest briefly on Mustafa’s cheek, then slides back to tightly tangle into his hair. Then, he kisses Mustafa.

Mustafa jerks awake in a cold sweat, every time.

He has to force himself not to think if Neville is currently going through the same experience on the other side, because attached to that concept is an undeniable, soul-shattering hurt. No, Neville is probably at the gym, deadlifting three times his weight, scowling. He’s probably standing over the stove, cooking steak and sweet potatoes, still scowling. Probably yelling at random people in the street, just because they had the gall to stare at his scowl one second too long.

A week passes entirely too quickly, and it’s Raw again. After Mustafa finishes stressing about how dark his under eye bags are, he heads down to the arena and makes his way to the locker room. He keeps his head down, which is unusual, since he usually raises a hand to greet everyone as brightly as possible. He knows he’ll just seek out Neville and he doesn’t want to be too obvious. Or is it too obvious that he’s trying to hide something? He quickly pulls his gaze back up just as he runs right into someone.

“Jack?!” Mustafa swallows hard. This is the first time he’s touched Jack, since.. _well..._

“You’d do well to watch where you’re walking, Mr. Ali,” Jack says, too formally.

Mustafa cringes. “Is that how it’s going to be?” he bites back, a touch of anger in his tone.

“I’m only being civil,” Jack responds evenly, though he surreptitiously eyes Mustafa’s new suit.

 _That’s right, be impressed._ Mustafa thinks proudly. _I’ve been practicing my full windsor, you British turd._

“Is this guy bothering you, Jack?” Kendrick shows up from out of nowhere and throws a lazy arm around Jack’s shoulders. Jack’s always been weird about people touching him but he seems perfectly comfortable with Kendrick draped over him. That probably means they’re fucking. Mustafa suddenly feels sick to his stomach, and tilts his chin up, trying to suppress a pained wince.

A flicker of humanity flashes in Jack’s eyes as he remains focused on Mustafa. “You alright, chap?” he asks, his tone probably more tender than he intended.

“Just fine,” Mustafa growls, internally gathering up his intestines and takes a large step backward. He intended to give Jack a wide berth, but instead slams into a brick wall he didn’t remember being there. The brick wall’s breath hitches in Mustafa’s ear.

“Watch it,” Neville hisses, shoving Mustafa away.

Mustafa goes crashing into Cedric, who has the wherewithal to try and catch Mustafa, but ends up spilling his hot coffee all over the brand new suit. The locker room goes completely silent now, and Mustafa takes a step back, staring down at his ruined clothes in disbelief.

“Oh shit, sorry Mustafa,” Cedric says, looking distressed.

But Cedric’s the furthest thing from Mustafa’s mind as he spins around on his heel. For once the roles are reversed, with Neville’s gaze wide and unmoving, looking terrified as Mustafa violently stares him down, nostrils flared.

“Here comes another temper tantrum,” Kenrick snickers. Jack elbows him hard.

“You know what?” Mustafa spits, pointing an accusing finger at Neville. “I hope Kalisto wins tonight and you never get a chance at the Championship ever again.”

It’s only TJP who sends a childish “ _Oooooh_ ” into the room before Gran Metalik claps him over the back of the head.

Neville’s eyes flash with momentary hurt, but then seems to remember he’s in the locker room and goes back to his signature glare, literally snarling at Ariya like a caged animal. Ariya holds his hands up innocently, trying to suppress an expression that gives away how much he’s enjoying the drama unfolding.

Desperate for some air, Mustafa flings the locker room door open and nearly crashes right into Enzo fucking Amore. Letting out an agitated exhale, Mustafa blows past, accidentally knocking Enzo’s shoulder.

“Eesh, he got an extra extra large butt plug up his ass today, or something?” Mustafa can hear Enzo’s fading voice in the distance as his shoes slap down the hallway and his head shakes with involuntary rage. In what world did that bleached scumbag think the roster actually considered him a Champion? In what universe does Enzo Amore think he represents 205 Live?

 _One of these days_ , Mustafa swears, he’s going to put Enzo Amore in his place.

And that day came much faster than he expected. Only a few hours later in fact, in a main event lumberjack match between Kalisto and Enzo for the Cruiserweight Championship.

“You ain’t our Champion,” Mustafa gets to scream in Enzo’s stupid indignant face at ringside. “You don’t represent us. _You don’t represent us!_ ” The argument is enough of a distraction for Kalisto to take advantage, forcing Enzo to eat ringmat from a beautiful Salida Del Sol off the top turnbuckle. As everyone hoists the new Champion on their shoulders, Mustafa shoots an elated grin dead into the hard camera, hoping that Neville is watching backstage.

There’s a wave of relief upon the entire locker room as they stumble back inside. Mustafa can’t help but saunter his way to his locker, scanning the room for Neville. Tearing off his wrist wraps, his brow creases as he realises that not only Neville is missing, but his locker is empty.

“Hey, I’m sorry about earlier,” Cedric says, nudging him on the arm.

“Where’s Neville?” Mustafa asks, barely even having heard the apology.

“Gone,” Tozawa says.

Mustafa eyebrow quirks, looking behind him. “Gone?”

“Yeah? He said he had enough and just walked out,” Cedric explains, appraising Mustafa with concern. “You didn’t know?”

“What?! When?” Mustafa demands.

“After you go,” Tozawa shrugs, pointing at the door. “He go too.”

“You mean during the show? Why? He could be fired for that!” Mustafa panics, staring into Cedric’s eyes imploringly.

Cedric winces. “I don’t think he cares, dude.”

“Where did he go?”

“Dunno. Home, I guess, so, airport?” Cedric shrugs with a wild guess.

“I’ve got to go talk to him,” Mustafa decides and Cedric curses, heaving a sigh.

“Ali, don’t be crazy.”

But Mustafa’s bag is already packed and zipped up. “Do me a solid and cover for me? In case they want to do a post-show wrap up, or whatever?” he asks, though it’s more like a statement.

Cedric stares at him for a second, then pinches his nose despairingly. “Fine.”

Mustafa barely waits for the answer before he’s dashing for the locker room door, shoving his hand into the front pocket of his luggage for the rental car keys, ready to book it to the parking lot.

“He's not your problem to solve, Mustafa,” Cedric yells after him.

After throwing some sweats over his gear, Mustafa floors it to Indianapolis Airport, leaving the rental car with an expensive valet service that will save him the time of taking it back to whichever company it was hired from. He grips the handle of his luggage and speeds into a run, not stopping until he reaches Delta’s front desk. An attractive receptionist looks up to him, and heaves one of the most unimpressed sighs Mustafa has ever heard in his life. He goes by William, if his nametag is correct.

“Hello Ross, your Rachel has already got on the plane.”

Mustafa bristles with frustration. “This is a matter of life and death!” he blurts out, panting. Okay, maybe that was a little over the top. “Please tell me you have a flight to Orlando,” he tries again. “I need to get on it.”

“Normally no, but we have one flight to MCO that’s been on delay for nearly two hours,” William eyes his monitor, and Mustafa’s heart lifts for a second. “But the gate has been closed. Sorry!” Willam smiles spitefully.

Mustafa grips onto the edge of the desk, palms sweaty from the lie he’s about to tell. “It’s my baby girl’s birthday tomorrow and I’ve been stuck here for work all night. I’m just trying to make ends meet for my family. I’ve already missed my United flight because of a double shift and if I don’t get on that plane, there’s a young girl in Orlando whose heart will shatter into a million pieces if she can’t see her Daddy on her birthday.”

William stares into his eyes skeptically, and Mustafa’s heart beats furiously before he rolls his eyes with a groan. “There may be _one or two_ seats available.”

“Oh, _thank you,_ ” Mustafa nearly sobs with happiness before a thought strikes him. “Wait, any of those exit row?”

William blinks slowly, as if Mustafa is the most inconvenient person in the entire world. “Are you able to assist the crew in the unlikely chance of emergency,” he says, deadpan.

“Yes, yes,” Mustafa nods, hurriedly handing over his ID and credit card.

William barely moves aside from his eyes which occasionally flick to the computer. “It’ll be $435 for the ticket. Is that okay?”

The cost punches Mustafa in the heart. This is possibly the most insane thing he’s ever done in his life, and he wrestled a championship match with a busted hamstring 2 weeks before the Cruiserweight Classic. “Y-Yes,” he agrees, motioning to the credit card. He ignores the way his intestines knot around his stomach as he realises Neville may not even be on that flight.

“I hope she’s worth it, Mr Ali,” William says, placing the credit card and boarding pass together and holding it over the counter.

“ _He_ ,” Mustafa corrects, taking his things.

William pauses. “Your daughter?”

Mustafa’s heart stops beating. “O-Oh, yeah. That’s right,” he stutters, smiling innocently. “She’s definitely worth it.”

“I knew it,” William groans, lazily gesturing to his right. “Gate 47, through security check C. It’s boarding in twenty minutes, so better be quick. Have a safe flight, Mr. Ali. Wait, Mustafa Ali, as in..?”

“Thank you, William!” Mustafa is already speeding to security, waving his ticket thankfully.

“It’s Liam,” the receptionist hollers back.

A pat-down and bomb screening from security means that when Mustafa reaches the gate, the flight is already mostly boarded. He can’t see Neville anywhere (and he’s really easy to spot in a normal crowd), so he goes to the front desk.

“Is there a Mr. Adrian Neville on this flight?” He asks the young flight attendant, who’s platinum blonde hair is pulled back in a tight bun except for one lock over her forehead that is just too short.

“I’m sorry, I can’t give out personal information unless it’s a family member, or you’re on the same booking. Are you on their-” she looks up from her half finished checklist and her mouth falls open. “Oh my god, you’re Mustafa Ali!”

Mustafa’s mouth curls into a wry smirk and he places a finger over his lips. “But keep it on the DL, love,” he winks. She titters and brings the paper up to her face to hide her blush.

“ _Another_ wrestler?! No more autographs, Taryn,” one of her peers groans but that’s all Mustafa needs to hear to jump into the back of the line just as the last passengers are boarding. He flashes a final grin at Taryn and she gives a tiny, delighted wave back.

Mustafa slides down the tiny aisle of the plane which is no way near full ( _Thanks Liam_ ), everyone is already seated except an elderly woman who’s being assisted by a tattooed girl in overalls to put her handbag in the overhead lockers. Mustafa reaches the exit row and Neville is there, head resting against the window, headphones on and eyes already shut. The middle seat on each side is empty, and Mustafa’s ticket tells him his seat is on the aisle on the other side.

Mustafa crouches down to a guy wearing a cap who’s basketballer lanky on Neville’s side. “Hey, do you want to swap seats with me? That guy’s my friend,” Mustafa whispers to him. The guy pulls out his earbuds then nods apathetically and moves to the other aisle seat with no fuss.

For the next thirty minutes through taxing and takeoff, Neville does not move or notice who’s joined him on his flight. Nerves shoot through Mustafa like a gentle electrical current and with a chance for his brain to finally relax, he’s in disbelief that he’s actually done this- taken an impulse flight with a man who’s probably going to throw him out of the airlock as soon as he realises-

Stealing a glance, Neville’s hand is frozen around the air-conditioning knob, staring blankly at Mustafa. Neville’s bottom lip wavers, brows knit as shadows cross his expresion.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses.

Mustafa grips onto the seat, heartbeat clumsy and clunking in his ears. Well, was here now. He made it. What was he supposed to say?

“I need to talk to you,” Mustafa says, surprised at how unwavering his voice is.

“About what?!” Neville asks, affronted.

“You walked out.”

Neville groans, ripping his headphones off. “What a stunnin’ revelation, Ali. You couldn’t have rung to tell me that?”

“I don’t have your number!” Mustafa shoots back, offended.

“Um, drinks?” It was Taryn. Her eyes flick between Neville and Mustafa curiously, widening as if her mind was already forming fantheories. Neville refuses and Mustafa orders a water, making eyes with Taryn to mouth the words ‘ _Down. Low._ ’ as she passes him a bottle. Taryn nods blankly and pulls the cart to the next row..

Neville’s eyes were evilly on the flight attendant as Mustafa turns back around. “Wonderful, now all of tumblr is going to think we’re fucking.”

Mustafa’s sip sprays out of his mouth and he quickly holds the back of his hand to his lips. “Have you gone completely insane?” he balks, leaning over the armrest into the empty middle seat.

“You realise who you’re talking to, right?” Neville says with a pointed glare.

Mustafa holds the gaze. Eventually his brows soften. “I’m here because I want to see if you’re alright.”

“No, I’m not alright,” Neville says honestly, then puts his headphones back on. “And I don’t want to talk about it.” He shifts his body back to look out of the dark window and crosses his arms.

“Oh, come on,” Mustafa says, reaching over but before he touches Neville’s arm, his wrist is caught and twisted painfully. Mustafa’s face contorts soundlessly before ripping his hand back. “Jesus, you have eyes in the back of your head or something?” he grimaces, massaging his wrist sorrily.

They spend the remainder of the flight in an extremely awkward silence and Mustafa takes the opportunity to properly change out of his gear and give himself a very questionable sponge bath with plane soap and wet paper towels. Once the adrenaline settles down, it becomes clear how uncomfortable and gross he feels. Meanwhile, Neville still refuses to talk to him. Without a plan of where he’s going to shower, or even where he’s going to sleep, Mustafa suddenly feels like an absolute idiot.

 _Cedric is definitely wrong, though,_ Mustafa decides as he gazes at Neville peacefully asleep, curled up against the window. _He is my problem to solve._

After they’ve arrived in Orlando, Neville collects his belongings and makes his way towards the long-term carpark so quickly that Mustafa nearly loses him.

“Wait!” Mustafa yells, careening across the arrivals floor. The humid Orlando air outside of the sliding doors hits him like a wall. He blanches a little, seeing Neville’s little topknot still powerwalking down the taxi bay. “Oh for fucks-” Mustafa groans, picking up his bag and booking it down the concrete pathway, trying not to take out anyone with his luggage. After work, running through IND, and now this, Mustafa wasn’t sure how much energy he had left to chase Neville across the country.

Neville hears him coming and sighs, finally stopping and turning around to stare at Mustafa with displeasure. “What.”

“Wngh.. _Where_ are you going,” Mustafa pants, pushing a palm into his knee to catch his breath.

“Home, numpty.”

“Oh, okay, yeah cool, I knew that,” Mustafa says, throwing up a thumbs up.

Neville eyes him up and down with disgust. “Well, then. Good luck,” he says, and turns around.

“Wait, you’re not leaving me here by myself?” Mustafa confidence falters tellingly at that, because there is a very real possibility that Neville is going to abandon him in Orlando.

“What did you expect?” Neville turns and raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t know,” Mustafa says, too exhausted to come up with another lie. “I didn’t think any of this through. I just heard you’d left during the show and- _fuck, I don’t know_ \- I thought about if I was in your situation and I wouldn’t want to be alone, so, I guess I didn’t want you to be alone either.”

Neville’s face shifts into an expression which is completely unreadable to Mustafa. He stares for a good ten seconds and doesn’t break Mustafa’s gaze. It’s completely unnerving.

“You have 205 tomorrow, don’t you?” Neville asks, voice strangely soft.

“Don’t you?” Mustafa counters.

“I’m.. on strike,” Neville says, after pondering how to word it.

Mustafa’s bottom lip falls away. “You’re not going?”

“Of course I’m not goin', why do you think I’m in Orlando and not fucking Grand Rapids, Mustafa?”

Tears prickle in Mustafa’s eyes because not only is he not sure how he’s going to cope with going to work and not seeing Neville there, but that was the first time Neville had ever directly called him by his first name. Mustafa restrains the tears, glancing upwards and pressing his palm firmly into his forehead. “ _What_...” he tries for words quietly, but whatever was half-formed in his mind quickly disappears.

Neville isn’t just abandoning him, he’s abandoning the _entire division_.

“Come on,” Neville mutters.

Mustafa turns his wounded expression to Neville. “Huh?”

“You can stay at mine, since you clearly can’t be left unsupervised,” Neville says, tellingly uncomfortable with how emotional Mustafa’s getting, so he just starts walking in the direction he was originally heading in.

“You’re not going to leave me in the gutter are you?” Mustafa jokes, but genuinely worried it might actually happen.

Neville ponders this. “Maybe.”

So physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted is he, that Mustafa passes out as soon as they’re on the highway and Neville has to wake him up by jabbing him repeatedly with the corner of his phone.

“Five more minutes,” Mustafa whines.

“Out, or you can walk back to the airport for all I care.”

Mustafa groans and collapses out of the car, dragging his feet to get the luggage from the trunk.

Neville house is not at all what Mustafa expects. It’s a modern, impeccably clean and shockingly homey. Neville throws his keys in a little glass dish on a console table in the entry, and Mustafa pauses to look at a photo frame of a younger looking Neville, Sami Zayn and Kevin Owens posing happily in front of a Spanish landmark.

“I was honestly expecting a dungeon,” Mustafa says, and Neville looks at him embarrassed, as if his King of the Cruiserweights facade has been thoroughly shattered.

Neville shows his guest where the shower is, which is upstairs and they pass a door half open which Mustafa has a feeling is Neville’s bedroom and he has to suppress a powerful desire to see inside. By Neville’s extremely rigid body language that Mustafa is in his house at all, it’s pretty obvious that is never going to happen.

It’s one of the best showers Mustafa has ever taken, and he throws on a loose singlet and sweatpants before back heading downstairs. Neville is in the kitchen and offers up one of his prepackaged meals that he’s probably on a sponsorship for but never promotes. Where Mustafa would’ve just eaten out of the plastic container, Neville transfers the meal to a plate after heating it up and slides it to Mustafa with cutlery across the marble kitchen island.

They eat in silence, Mustafa wishing he could put some music on so they they don’t have to hear each other chewing or forks scraping against plates. Not wanting to stare at Neville, Mustafa observes the decor, noting that he’s seen a candle in almost every room, even the toilet.

“You like candles, huh?” Mustafa asks, gesturing to the one burning in the kitchen currently. It smells like cucumber and herbs.

“Sensitive nose,” Neville shrugs.

“Is that why you’re always making that face?” Mustafa smirks.

“What face?”

Mustafa imitates Neville’s feral scowl as best he can. Neville’s huffs, glaring. Then his fork clatters on the plate so he can make his was around the kitchen island and grab Mustafa by the collar.

“I’m throwin' you out,” Neville says, deadpan, tugging Mustafa off his seat and towards the door. Mustafa giggles and playfully, but unsuccessfully, tries to push Neville away.

“Stop, stop, I’m sorry!” he moans delightedly.

Both men pause suddenly, and Mustafa becomes extremely aware that one of his hands is grasping onto Neville’s tricep and the other pushing up against the side seam of his polo shirt. There is a very definite, very distracting transfer of body heat happening and a current of excitement thrums in Mustafa's stomach. Neville’s tongue sweeps over his bottom lip, and his breath is heavy before he gently shoves Mustafa away.

“Don’t tell them,” Neville grumbles.

For a moment Mustafa thinks Neville’s just admitted his feelings before he realises he meant the candles _. Fucking candles_. “You shouldn’t be ashamed,” Mustafa straightens out his shirt, then tries for a warm smile. “I like it. It humanizes you.”

“That’s exactly what I _don’t_ want,” Neville snaps, stepping forward. His eyes are level with Mustafa’s, maybe a few inches from his face. There’s weight to the space between them, and Mustafa’s breath becomes short. “I’m a king, remember?”

“Okay, King,” Mustafa breathes.

Neville’s lips part involuntarily, and delicate tendrils of arousal curl sweetly in Mustafa gut as he stares at his mouth. He’s never seen Neville like this before. He’s so close, so vulnerable, and so sexy. Mustafa suddenly has more than one reason to his desire to see the inside of Neville’s royal quarters.

“Where do you want me?” Mustafa asks huskily and Neville pales.

“What?”

“To sleep?” Mustafa’s eyes flick away for a second, feeling exposed.

“Peasants on the couch,” Neville points to the living room.

“What?!” Mustafa bristles. “But I have to wrestle tomorrow!”

“It will make you feel like you’re in your twenties again,” Neville smirks, crossing his arms and leaning back triumphantly. “Pretend you just drove across the country after working a show for $40 and a shit larger.”

The peasants couch is a three seater and deceptively comfortable. Neville provides him with a pillow and a blanket but says he probably won’t need it because the house is programmed to be perfectly tempered, which it is. So, Mustafa lays down on The King of the Cruiserweight’s couch and for the first time in hours, checks his cell phone.

Ceddy 10.46pm **  
did u make it?**

Me 2.12am  
**Yeah. I’m in his fucking house**

Ceddy 2.30am **  
what does that mean?**

**It means I’m sleeping over at Neville’s. I’m on his couch right now**

**uhhhh??? What the fuck?  
You’re in orlando???**

**Yeah**

**I thought you were just gonna talk to him at the airport?????**

**Well he was already at the gate**

**you can go to the gates without a ticket you dumbass**

**I know that**

Mustafa groaned. Of course he could’ve fucking done that.

**I don’t know, I panicked!**

**well I’m going back to sleep**  
**I hope it was worth it  
** **you better be at 205 tomorrow or im taking your place in the tag team**

**Wouldn’t miss it ;)**

Me 2.58am  
**Wait, what tag team?**

Cedric doesn't text back, so Mustafa flops back against the pillow and stares at the silhouette of a plant in front of one of the living room’s tall, narrow windows. He’s fairly certain he’s having an out of body experience. Or, that this is actually a very vivid, very terrifying dream.

“How am I going to get back to Michigan tomorrow,” Mustafa groans, massaging his eyes.

At least another half an hour passes and Mustafa still can’t get to sleep, so he rolls onto the carpeted floor and does his favourite relaxation yoga routine. He imagines that conversation with Neville on the roof, but the atmosphere is different again. He feels weak, rooted in place. Mustafa tries to take a step forward and collapses, clutching at his midsection. Neville is somehow next to him, catching him. Mustafa looks at his hand, drenched with blood.

_“Ah,” Mustafa says._

_“No,” Neville breathes shakily, looking horrified. “Jesus, Mustafa, no!” There’s a crash, like the roof exit door opening and Neville’s head jerks towards it. Mustafa ignores it. All he sees is Neville. “Help him!” Neville screams._

_“It’s okay,” Mustafa coughs, perhaps a little spluttery. “I guess I made him angry.”_

_Neville smiles, and it is not one out of happiness, but of pain. “I’m sorry,” he says, his smile collapsing into a barely-restrained sob._

_“Don’t be sorry. You made me happy,” Mustafa assures him. “So happy.”_

_Neville gathers Mustafa into his arms, holding him close. “I love you so much,” Neville sobs against his neck._

When Mustafa jerks awake with a gulping inhale, he has no idea where he is. He’s supposed to be in a hotel in Grand Rapids but this doesn’t look like a hotel room, more like a bedroom. There’s a sheer curtain blowing into the room from an open window and the sound of a running shower in the next room that squeaks off. Wait. No, Mustafa didn’t drive to Grand Rapids last night, he chased Neville to the airport, didn’t he? And he’s supposed to be in Neville’s house, on Neville’s couch. But he’s not on Neville’s couch, he’s in a bed. A very large, comfortable bed, in a room with pale earthy tones and a candle burning on the dresser, filling the room with an aroma of bergamot, cardamom and clary sage.

“What the fuck?!” Mustafa startles, when Neville walks out of the bathroom, nothing but a black towel around his midsection.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Neville says, walking over to the dresser, like nothing at all with this current situation is fucking bonkers. He picks up something from the top and walks over to the bed.

Musafa pulls the sheets up over himself, “Why am I in your bed?” he demands.

“Because you were asleep on the fuckin' floor of my living room when I went to go to the gym this morning. So I moved you. You didn't even stir. Dead to the world.”

“You’ve been to the gym?” Mustafa looks at a clock on the bedside table. It was already 8:30AM.

“Yes.”

“So we didn’t?”

“No.”

“ _Alhamdulillah_!” Mustafa flops onto his back in relief.

Neville stares at him for a moment before sighing heavily and throws an envelope onto the bed with a soft _thwap_. Mustafa pushes up to a sit and takes it curiously.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Your boarding pass to Grand Rapids,” Neville says plainly. Mustafa looks up to him with widening eyes.

“You bought me a ticket?”

“Yes, if you take this flight, you’ll get there on time and those muppets in management won’t even notice you took a detour last night. I’ll drive you to the airport.”

Mustafa feels tears welling up in his own eyes just from the generosity. “Why are you being so nice?” he asks, voice exceptionally small.

“I’m tryin’ to get rid of you,” Neville corrects, then rolls his eyes when Mustafa looks hurt by that. “You said you didn’t want me to be alone in a time of need, and I... “ He hesitates, then grits his teeth, “Appreciate it.”

Mustafa opens his mouth, and an elated, victorious noise begins to form before Neville smothers his lips with a hand. Mustafa groans into his palm, disappointed.

“No talking. Shower. Dress. Meet me downstairs in 20.”

“Wait,” Mustafa holds out a hand, as Neville walks towards his closet. “I don’t have anything to wear. My suit got ruined.”

“You think any of my clothes will fit you?” Neville scoffs, then his eyes tighten at a realisation, and he disappears into the closet for a moment. Mustafa watches the open door with awe until Neville returns with a simple black two piece suit, white shirt with a lavender undertones and a skinny black tie. “That might.”

“Armani Exchange? Fancy,” Mustafa notes, he must’ve been holding onto this from when he was skinnier.

“If it fits, you can have it,” Neville shrugged, something odd in his eyes, but before Mustafa can question it, he’s ushered into the ensuite. “Chivvy along, now.”

When Mustafa’s showered, he tidies up his beard, smooths his hair back with pomade and tries the suit on. The jacket fits perfectly but the pants are maybe half an inch too small around the hips. Mustafa stands on the edge of the bath so he can appraise himself in the vanity mirror.

“Oh god, you can see my entire dick,” he grumbles, attempting to adjust it in a less conspicuous position. After a minute he gives up and, in defeat, heads downstairs.

Neville’s eyes widen when he sees Mustafa reach the bottom of the stairs, eyes travelling downward for a second before he turns away and Mustafa is certain Neville is trying his absolute best to repress a smile. Mustafa shifts awkwardly, not even wanting to ask if he looks good or not anymore.

“It looks good,” Neville murmurs, holding tight to his keys. “Keep it.”

The air between them in the hallway seems to tingle with a comfortable warmth, an anticipation, and Mustafa feels utterly immersed in it, heart beating spectacularly in his chest.

The car ride back to the airport is quiet and smooth, mostly thanks to Neville’s Jaguar XJ, which is honestly a more respectable car than Mustafa would’ve given him credit for. Mustafa is surprised he didn’t notice it the night before but he supposed he was pretty fucking wiped. If he had no idea that Neville was an evil, deranged Cruiserweight king, he would’ve guessed that Neville was an employment lawyer, living with his partner and probably a kid or two. Very put together, very corporate. All his possessions scream domestic comforts. Mustafa feels guilty, for some reason, knowing that in reality, Neville is not living that life at all.

He wonders how lonely Neville is.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Mustafa pipes up, after nearly an entire a car ride of silence. They’re taking the off ramp which leads to the airport. “What are you going to do?” he tries again, when Neville doesn’t answer.

“I don’t know,” Neville says, eyes trained to the road.

“I’m scared,” Ali turns to look out of the window, ashamed.

“Why?”

“Without you, I’ve..” Mustafa’s heart twists painfully. “I’ve lost sight of my goal.”

“Which was?”

“Beat you for the Cruiserweight Championship and restore light to the kingdom,” Mustafa sighs. Neville barks out a dark laugh, and Mustafa turns to stare at him angrily, dread settling in his gut. After the lovely night they spent together, he ends up humiliated!

“You’re so fuckin' cute,” Neville snorts. “That _never_ would’ve happened.”

“Well, we’ll never know that now, will we?” Mustafa grumbles, crossing his arms as the car zips under a sign that directs traffic to arrivals.

“Restore light to the kingdom,” Neville repeats, bursting into great guffaws all over again at the mere concept. Mustafa clicks his tongue, knee jiggling and he internally curses at a slow vehicle in front of them.

After what feels like the slowest 300 feet in Mustafa’s life, the car finally pulls into the arrivals bay and he jumps out without so much of a thank you, desperately searching for the button that will open the trunk. Neville activates the park brake and gets out, rounding around to meet him at the back.

“Open it!” Mustafa glares. His ire takes pause as Neville holds out his hand to shake.

“Win the Cruiserweight Championship and I’ll come back,” Neville says, his tone and expression deadly serious.

The bustling atmosphere seems to melt away and all Mustafa can hear is his own breath in his ears. “You promise?” he asks hopefully.

“I swear on it,” Neville confirms, gesturing to his hand. “Win the title and balance will be restored to the kingdom.”

Mustafa shakes firmly. _Balance will be restored to the kingdom._ Neville is the darkness and Mustafa is the light. It’s not just that they’re rivals, they need each other to survive. Like.. _soulmates_.

It’s a few seconds before he can drag himself out of his mind and back into the present. His blood is pulsing hard though his body, leaving him light-headed as Neville passes him his luggage.

“Safe flight,” Neville says. “Don’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” Mustafa remembers to say, just as Neville gets back in the car and shuts the door. Though he’s not quite sure if he’s thanking him for a conversation, a place to sleep, a plane ticket or the golden objective.

Mustafa blinks as the Jaguar revs, and Neville leaves him in the dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a slugger! Let me know your thoughts!


	4. The Demon and the Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mustafa's mission is simple: win the title and bring the King home to 205 Live. But, of course, nothing is simple when you have ex's.

There is a serious pep in Mustafa’s step when he shows up to Raw. It’s mid-October now and the self-proclaimed defender of light has been on an absolute roll with wins since, well, his _enlightening excursion_ as he’s been describing it to Cedric.

“Somehow you’re _too_ happy now, it’s freaking me out,” Cedric says, eyeing him suspiciously while elbow deep into his bag. He pulls out an elbow pad and sighs with relief.

“I’ve always been happy,” Mustafa reminds him, then clicks his tongue at his phone. “The reception down here is terrible.”

“Are you texting him _again_?” Cedric peers over to the phone.

“No,” Mustafa lies, holding the phone against his chest. “Maybe. Turns out we have way more in common than I thought.” He proclaims proudly.

Cedric rolls his eyes. “Like, how you both have delusions of grandeur?”

Mustafa looks offended. “Delusions of grandeur, _how?_ ”

“Well he thinks he’s an evil king and you think you’re a saviour to the people,” Cedric smirks, raising an eyebrow.

Mustafa just shrugs. “You’re lucky I’m such a _happy_ person, or else you would’ve paid for that with an L.”

Cedric shakes his head dismissively. “I’m sure I would’ve,” he says facetiously.

Mustafa decides doesn’t have time for Cedric’s ego today when he could be texting Neville, so he takes his phone in hand, excuses himself and slips out of the locker room. As he weaves through the crowded hallways, he spots Finn Balor and his entourage up ahead, and Mustafa briefly feels like he’s been dropped on his head because Finn does a small double take before making his way towards him through backstage.

Mustafa checks over his shoulder but there’s no one of interest behind him and upon looking back, he has to suck in a breath as Finn is right there, stepping very much into his personal space. Finn touches him on the arm, and Mustafa allows himself to be angled slightly, as if being inspected. There’s a slight uncanny expression to Finn’s face that Mustafa just cannot place.

“Hey man, nice suit,” Finn says with a soft smile. “Looking sharp.”

“Thanks, Finn.” Mustafa swallows, heart practically exploding. Getting the rub from Finn Balor is no small thing!

Finn’s hand lingers on Mustafa’s side, blue eyes observing the lapels of the Armani Exchange suit. He doesn’t immediately step away, but raises his chin so he can look at Mustafa’s bewildered face. “2013 was a good year.”

Mustafa blinks, mind otherwise blank from the proximity. Finn gives one last smile, then gently brushes past, leaving an air behind him that is unnerving and intense, causing the hairs on Mustafa’s arms to stand on end.

“That was a totally normal interaction,” Mustafa says to the air, watching as Balor’s back disappears behind a group of roadies carrying a roadcase.

Later, Mustafa will paint Finn’s behaviour down to him being no more than an intense personality and allow himself to bask in the warmth that his favourite suit received a compliment from such a high place.

 

* * *

 

“This is ridiculous,” Mustafa grits his teeth, staring at the backstage feed. He’s in equal parts disbelief and rage at the picture of Enzo holding up the title, Kalisto laid out on the mat, backdropped by the arena graphics of TLC.

 _Disregard the miracles_ , gets punched into twitter, a bitter punchline to his earlier tweet, where he was joyful that Enzo had shown up to work without a voice.

King 8.32pm  
**Has that match happened yet?**

**Just finished**

**Who won?**

**Enzo**

**Motherfucker.**

When Mustafa looks up, Jack’s eyeing him peculiarly, and doesn’t break his gaze when caught. Mustafa stares back, almost incredulously, but Jack won’t look away, and there’s something in his eyes which makes Mustafa feel extremely guilty. Does Jack often look to him like this? Mustafa supposes he hasn’t really noticed since they...

Well, being on recent speaking terms with Neville has helped calm the obsessive storm of Mustafa’s brain, and in that calm, Jack has become visible again.

Mustafa tries for a small smile and waves surreptitiously. The gentleman looks away with no reaction whatsoever and Mustafa sighs.

Enzo makes his grand entrance not soon after, shoving his victory in everyone’s faces and Mustafa retreats as quickly as he can, planning to hide away from the locker room until Enzo’s left for the next town. He’s on the verge of initiating a backstage brawl, and Mustafa doesn’t want to lose his job over something so immature.

Mustafa finds a quiet little unused room and the lights flicker on, though one is blown. He slumps onto a chair and checks Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat before opening camera mode. The imperfect lighting of the room casts a handsome three-quarter light on his face, with red tones from an adjacent wall adding romantic hues on his warm complexion. Mustafa suddenly feels a weighty desire to send Neville a photo of himself. It’s presumptuous, and he’s not sure if Neville will take to it kindly, but no one ever placed in a race by standing still.

It takes thirty-two photos and someone nearly walking in on his vainglorious moment before he finally decides on one he’s happy with. His expression is softer than the the selfies he usually puts on Instagram. The corner of his mouth is upturned and his eyes stare straight into the camera with the slightest inkling of a suggestion if you looked hard enough.

Me 9:20pm  
**I won’t allow your prophecy to go unfulfilled.  
****[Photo attachment]**

Mustafa almost immediately regrets it. _Such an idiot,_ he groans into his hands. Hurriedly, he opens the message app back up with the intention of deleting it but Neville’s read receipt is already there. He slouches deeper into the chair.

“I’ll have to change my name,” he decides to himself. “Go into the witness protection program. Hell, I may never wrestle again!”

When his phone vibrates, Mustafa winces, and he almost doesn't look at it out of sheer humiliation.

King 9.25pm  
**:)**

It’s like Mustafa’s wildly beating heart detaches from his chest, morphs into a dove and flies away.

King 9.26pm  
**You are far too unreasonably handsome to have not been booked on that shitshow ppv.**

“Maybe we’ll have an autumn wedding,” Mustafa sighs, holding his phone against his chest, imagining a forest backdrop of red, orange and yellows. Just a small gathering of close friends and family. Neville will wear a black tux, and he’ll wear white. Or, maybe, Neville will wear white, Mustafa thinks, blushing.

Me 9:29pm  
**Handsome?! Speak for yourself**

**Are you trying to flirt with me, Ali?**

**That’s just my natural charm  
** **Not my fault how you read into it ;)**

**Sorry to break this to you, but I only look to the ladies.**

**Wait, you serious?**

**Why, do I seem gay to you?**

**We’re wrestlers  
** **Homosexuality is the given**

**Then, you’d be correct.**

**?**

**I was lying ;)**

**So you are?**

**Super gay.  
** **But I bet your sad puppy face just now was really cute.**

**[Photo attachment]**

**HA!  
** **I’m always right.**

One more hour of provocative texting and Mustafa is sufficiently cheered up, so he makes his way back to the locker room. Flirting with Neville makes him both excited and inexplicably nervous. He’s a charmer by nature, but this is different. The almost taboo nature of engaging in such a relationship with Neville is so overpowering, like a brilliant sunshine that is as warming as a it is blinding.

He bumps into Jack on the way, who’s eyes snap up, an unguarded expression on the gentleman’s face closing up in an instant. Mustafa, meanwhile, can’t wipe the beaming smile off his.

“Where were you?” Jack asks, guarded. Though he’s doing his best to maintain an impassive expression, somehow right now he looks painfully vulnerable. He’s gripping onto the handle of William III so tightly, his knuckles have gone white.

“Avoiding our toxic, fuckboy Champion,” Mustafa shrugs, feeling as though nothing could touch his high right now, “Is he still in there?”

“No, he’s left to celebrate the win,” Jack responds, giving Mustafa a reprimanding look. “And he’s not that bad.”

Mustafa pulls a face. Jack rolls his eyes slightly, but there was a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“He.. _is_ a bit of a trollop, isn’t he?” Jack snickers naughtily.

“Swear jar, Mr. Gallagher!” Mustafa teases back and Jack laughs delightedly, which is the first time Mustafa’s seen him show any kind of joy since they broke up. Mustafa’s heart bursts with affection.

The laughs subside into the first companionable silence they’ve shared in a long time, and Jack looks at the ground bashfully. Maybe, just maybe they’re going to be okay?

“See you tomorrow?” Mustafa asks earnestly, eyes imploring.

Jack meets his eye shyly, then nods. “This doesn’t mean we’re on good terms.”

“As long as we’re not on bad terms,” Mustafa swallows, somewhat painfully.

Jack chooses not to honour the question, but there’s thankfully no ill will in the air between them. “Goodnight, Mr. Ali,” Jack says, consciously moving around Mustafa so they don’t brush shoulders.

Mustafa pushes hair out of his eyes and continues into the locker room. Aside from his luggage, it’s otherwise empty, so Jack must have been the last to leave. The main lights have been turned off except for a few down lights around the lockers. He sheds his gear and pulls on the slacks of the suit Neville gifted him. The jacket is hanging up but he’s having trouble finding his shirt. Mustafa digs around in his bag and--

The locker room door opens.

Mustafa looks around, only a little scandalised to be walked in on half-dressed. His first thought is that it’s Jack, but as he scans the room, he isn’t greeted with the sight of anyone. His fingertips slide over the familiar material of the shirt and he pulls it out of his bag, clicking his tongue at the wrinkles from his carelessness. With an ominous feeling that he’s being watched, Mustafa pulls on the shirt as quickly as possible, reaching for the jacket before something crashes into his side, and he feels himself flying across the locker room floor right towards an adjacent brick wall!

With a sickening sensation, Mustafa collides with the wall, shrieking in pain as he falls to the floor clutching his shoulder. Even as a wrestler who gets thrown around for pay, the pain exploding from his ribs staggers him.

There’s someone standing over him. A darkened silhouette in the half-lit locker room, shoulders hunched, fingers threateningly curled into claws by their sinewy thighs.

“That’s _Finn’s suit_ ,” the Demon seethes hatefully.

Terrified, Mustafa stares in the glint of the Demon’s eyes, unable to look away, feeling as if he is being sucked into the darkness. His eyes brim with unshed tears of sorrow. Why does he suddenly feel so _sad_?

“This is Neville’s suit,” Mustafa protests, eyes scoping out his escape options. With a looming contendership opportunity on the horizon, the last thing Mustafa wants is to get into a fight and possibly get injured. “He gave it to me.”

“And who do you think gave it to Neville in the first place?” the Demon growls.

Mustafa feels like he's going to be sick.

All the puzzle pieces fall into place. The suit is from 2013, which was a ‘ _good year_ ’ as Finn had oddly put it. It’s why Finn picked him out of the crowd; touched him bizarrely. Feeling as though it’s difficult to breathe, Mustafa realises he has never been so willfully ignorant in his life.

_Finn Balor is Neville’s ex._

“Give back Finn’s suit,” the Demon says darkly.

“No,” Mustafa refuses, surreptitiously grounding his feet under him. “If Finn gave it to Neville, then Finn has no right to the suit anymore.”

“You hurt him. Can’t you feel it?” the Demon questions.

And Mustafa suddenly feels inexplicably lost and scared. All words lodged in his throat, he blinks and two thick streams of tears which are not his stream down his face. _Is this._. F _inn’s sadness_? Mustafa wonders. How is the Demon doing this?

“Stop,” Mustafa chokes out, feeling utterly powerless.

“Give it back,” and the Demon speaks with a sense of finality this time.

“ _No_.”

The Demon is wrathful now, and lunges for Mustafa’s slacks, trying to pull them off. Mustafa panics, landing a well placed kick to Finn’s bad shoulder. The Demon howls, dragging Mustafa forward by the arm before pulling at his hair and tearing at his face.

“HEL- _ugk!_ ”

Mustafa’s cries are in vain as the Demon punches him in the neck, Mustafa left spluttering. The Demon finally navigates the collar of Mustafa’s shirt to pull him in close and bite him hard above the eyebrow. Mustafa sees glitter, a foggy red coating his vision. Barely able to breathe, he is powerless as the Demon rips off the slacks with success.

“Finn’s suit!” the Demon proclaims proudly, holding up the ruined material, splits down the seams.

“DISENGAGE, HEATHEN,” a voice bellows. Then, a darkened smear wallops over the back of the Demon’s head. The Demon turns around but Jack has already side-stepped in front of Mustafa protectively, wielding William III like a knight in a three-piece suit of armour.

Mustafa can barely believe his what he’s seeing, but with the suit back in Finn’s possession, the Demon is appeased and retreats like an animal into the night. Weirdly, Mustafa breaks out into a smile, then a couple of chuckles, and then he is lost in full blown laughter.

“Oh, Mustafa, look at you,” Jack has him by both arms, pulling out a handkerchief to dab the blood from his face, pressing into the searing cut on his forehead. Mustafa sinks into Jack’s arms, his shoulders shaking with the force of his laughter. It's wild, unbridled, unfiltered, bordering on hysterical.

“Mustafa,” he echoes his own name, blinking, and the laughing subsides.

“Yes, very good. That’s your name,” Jack says, concerned.

“No, you called me Mustafa, not Mr. Ali,” Mustafa says, staring desperately into Jack’s eyes. “And you saved me?”

Jack sighs, wiping his own forehead with the sleeve of his suit. “Are you quite alright to walk? Let’s get you to the car and I can clean you up proper.”

Once Mustafa pulls his tracksuit pants on and shakily gathers up his luggage, he is escorted into the backseat of Jack’s rental. Mustafa is so exhausted that he nearly passes out until Jack jolts him awake, sliding onto the neighbouring seat with a first aid kit in hand, locking the car door behind him.

“Here we are,” Jack says calmly. His suit jacket is off with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to expose the pale skin of his forearms. “This may sting a little,” he warns, tipping a bottle of disinfectant onto a cotton pad. His expression is strained, shuffling in closer to reach up to the cut above Mustafa’s eyebrow. It stings but Mustafa doesn’t hiss or react. He just sits there, staring guiltily at the car floor. Jack’s fingers tremble slightly as they carefully clean up the drying blood from Mustafa’s beard.

“Will you tell me why Finn Balor is attacking you?” Jack asks. “I feel like you at least owe me that.”

“That black suit?” Mustafa concedes, and Jack nods. “It’s Neville’s.”

Jack’s hand pauses, hazel eyes meeting Mustafa. His brows are knotted now. “I knew it,” he mutters, voice full of bitterness and hatred.

“Shit,” Mustafa sighs, heart falling. “I'm sorry Jack. I'm really sorry.”

Jack tuts. “So, if the suit belongs to your new boyfriend, why is Mr. Balor attacking you, again?”

Mustafa pushes Jack’s hand away, scoffing. “Don’t be like that.”

“I just saved you, I’ll be how I like. Answer my question.” Jack demands, not dropping eye contact, pupils blazing.

“I think.. the suit originally belonged to Finn, when they used to date. I don’t know the timeline. But, Neville’s held onto it all this time. When I was at his house, he said I could keep it if it fit, and it does. Or, did.”

“You were at _his house_?” Jack practically yells. “When?!”

Mustafa curses himself internally. Why did he have to let that little tidbit slip out? “That’s none of your business, actually. I’m more concerned about how, you know, one of our co-workers literally having a split personality. I thought it was just a warpaint thing, but he it was like he was possessed! I.. I felt so sad around him, it was the most uncanny thing. A sadness that was not my own.”

Jack squints at him, turning up his chin. “You have _no_ idea, do you?”

Mustafa feels quite offended. “About what?”

“Your power?” Jack says seriously.

Mustafa’s mouth falls open. “My- what are you talking about?”

“Being the source of your affection is like-” Jack places his hand on the top of Mustafa’s thigh, who freezes, and Jack tilts his head back to close his eyes serenely. “Sitting on the porch during a new spring, cold enough that you can swear a sweater but warm enough to not need a coat and scarf. It’s being in a rocking chair, cup of earl grey in hand, and the sun is setting over the field, painting the sky in oranges and purples. The dog are with me too. The dachshund on my lap and rottweiler by my feet. I feel a light inside of me because everything around is warm, and I feel truly happy. I feel at peace.”

Mustafa stares at him in wonder, tears springing unannounced to his eyes.

“What?” Jack removes his hand, eyeing him strangely.

“Jack, that’s beautiful. Really poetic.”

Jack tilts his head in confusion. “No, that’s you,” Jack rephrases. “ _You_ make people live in their happiest moments. That’s why people like you- _love you-_ so easily. Isn’t that what all your ‘be the light’ hubbub is all about?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Mustafa says, swiping roughly at his eyes.

“You say Finn’s Demon made you feel a sadness which was not your own? Well you make others feel a happiness which _is_ their own. A hidden, untapped joy. You bring it out of them. It makes you impossible to loath.”

Mustafa isn’t sure what to think. Though his first instinct is to feel momentarily hurt. “Are you saying what we had wasn’t real?”

“No,” Jack shakes his head curtly. “I loved you, very much. That’s why when you discarded me and ripped my own happiness from me-” He glanced over his shoulders to where William III was resting on the front seat, then stared at his own hands distantly. “I felt like I had no other choice. It was Mr. Kendrick who saved me.”

Mustafa presses his hand against his lips, anguished. “Jack, I didn’t-”

“Please don’t get it twisted,” Jack meets Mustafa’s eyes again, raising a hand to silence him. “I like who I am now. I enjoy how in control of my own destiny I am. But believe me this, Mr. Ali, you have an affect on people that is profound and powerful, enough so to soften even the most heartless of kings.”

Mustafa’s lips part, staring at Jack in minor awe.

 

* * *

 

Jack’s words continue to swirl in Mustafa’s mind long after the night the Demon attacked him. The whole concept seems absurd but Jack had been so painfully earnest as he’d explained his greatest happiness, hand placed on Mustafa’s thigh. It all makes Mustafa question his own life experiences, his own sanity, and it bothers him night after night.

It isn’t just that he now doubts every relationship past and present, there is a guilt and insecurity which weighs heavily on his chest too. If he literally forces people to love him involuntarily, then what relationship has Mustafa had that’s been genuine? Mustafa can’t remember having felt so uncertain in his life, as if a mist was clouding his thoughts and he could no longer understand what was real and what was his power’s influence.

And amidst it all, it was practically impossible to get Neville off his mind.

The form of a blessing arrives when two fatal four-ways matches are announced, the winners of whom will fight in a #1 contendership match to face Enzo for the Championship. Mustafa’s match has him slated against Cedric, Drew and Tony, and Cedric’s prideful banter is already getting on his nerves, as if the match has already happened and the winner decided. It all comes to an ugly head when Cedric and he tag together, one week before the fatal four-way, and lose because of a stupid miscommunication which leads to a screaming match backstage.

What Cedric just doesn’t understand is that Mustafa _needs_ to win that match, and the two after it, or else Neville won’t come home.

A few days before the fatal four-way, Mustafa is caught off guard as he receives a call from the very man himself, the King of the Cruiserweights. An anomaly since, sure, they text almost daily, but never once have they had a real phone conversation.

“Hey King,” Mustafa greets brightly, ignoring his quickening heartbeat.

“Ali,” Neville’s voice is returned and a wave of relief washes over Mustafa. He’s missed that voice.

Mustafa lowers his tone to a whisper, shielding the receiver with his opposite hand. “I can’t really have phone sex right now, I’m at the airport. Children everywhere.” The lack of snigger from the other end makes Mustafa’s gut drop. Something’s wrong.

“Not why I’m calling, actually,” Neville says. “Finn rang me the other day.”

“Oh.”

“Are you alright?”

Mustafa slumps on most secluded seat he can find at his gate. “As good as one can be after being attacked by a demon. I guess I.. made him angry.” Mustafa blinks in realisation.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just.. I didn’t know how to explain it. I didn’t know if you knew.”

“I know, Ali.”

“Well, you didn’t tell me you used to date him?!”

“That’s none of your business.”

“But me getting sicced by your monster ex _is_ your business?”

“Yes.”

Mustafa groans, rolling his eyes. “How wonderfully hypocritical of you.”

“I just wish you’d told me.”

“You sound like my fucking parent, not my part-” Mustafa slaps his free hand over his mouth to shut himself up. _Fuck, fuck, fuck. Moron!_

Silence. “What?”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m annoyed, and I don’t want us to fight.”

“Did you nearly call me your partner?”

“No! Look, let’s just take a breather and cool off. I’ll call you after I get to the hotel in LA and we can discuss with fresh minds. _Then_ , we can have phone sex, if you like.”

“Ali, just… stop.”

“I…” Mustafa’s heart twists fearfully at that. “Stop what?”

“Whatever you think _this_ is.”

“You’ll need to be more specific, Neville.”

Neville scoffs. “For whatever reason, you seem to think there’s somethin' goin' on between us. And I want to make very clear that there’s not. I don’t know what signs gave it away--”

“You let me sleep in your bed, you gave me your ex-boyfriends suit, _multiple_ dick pics.”

“Well, all those things were mistakes. Clearly no one's perfect, not even I.”

“Oh,” Mustafa says, swallowing a lump in his throat and tasting the painful sting of it. He suddenly hates Neville for making him have this conversation in a public space where he can’t openly cry. “Oh,” he repeats, at a complete loss of what he can say to fix this.

“I just need space right now.”

“Yeah. Sure. I'll... space, yeah. You got it, champ."

Neville audibly flinches.

“Our bet is still on, yeah?” Mustafa asks, though more of a reminder than a question. “When I win the title, you’ll have no choice.”

“How mighty noble of you,” Neville spits back, then hangs up.

Mustafa stares at his phone in disbelief, smothering the desire to spike the hunk of metal across the terminal. He presses the edge of the phone hard against his forehead, face screwing up as he wants nothing more than to cry for a few moments in peace. A minute later, his flight is called to board.

Me 7.45am  
**You lied.**

Gentleman 7.46am  
**Excuse me?**

**I don’t have powers.**

**Did something happen?  
** **Are you quite alright, Mr. Ali?**

**forget it  
plane taking off**

 

* * *

 

The loss from the fatal four-way is soul-crushing. Crushing as is, but of course _he_ took the losing pinfall too. Mustafa is so belligerent and aggressive when he returns to the locker room that not even the Zo-Train provokes him in fear of being mowed down by the unhinged ram. It is not until Mustafa finally returns to his hotel room, that he casts his messily packed luggage across the floor where it explodes ringgear, toiletries and the shirt from _that suit_ like shrapnel across the hotel room.

Mustafa collapses onto the bed and curls up to let out a hysterical moan into the sheets. He stays there for a long time, but instead of tiring, he only grows more troubled. He cycles between pacing the room, slumping on an armchair with his head in his hands, clutching his hair, and watching a somewhat foggy Los Angeles skyline, just as restless as he.

He changes out of his gear and the tracksuit he threw overtop, but the thought of wearing clothes seems to constrictive, so he settles on the loosest shorts he can find strewn across the floor. He hasn’t had a shower, which is highly unlike him, but he can’t brave the bathroom right now, lest he see the toilet and immediately feel the need to throw up.

And he really does feel sick. It’s worse than any other time he’s lost a match. Worse than the Cruiserweight Classic. Worse than any other failed contendership match. Worse than to lose to Neville himself, because Mustafa knows that he’s lost so much more this time. The unknown of when Mustafa will get close to another championship opportunity and the bitter guilt of being the reason why Neville will not be coming back gnaws at his chest, making him pace even more incessantly until he collapses at the foot of the bed with exhaustion, feeling utterly and completely helpless.

There’s a soft knock on the door. Mustafa doesn’t react- doesn’t move where his head is lulled against his arm. After a moment, there’s a second, more sincere knock. It’s no doubt Lince, or Cedric. Maybe even Jack.

“I don’t care,” Mustafa tiredly yells out. “I don’t want to see anyone right now.”

The knocking is agitated now, and when Mustafa bows his head to press his forearms against his ears, the knocks mutate into an unbroken stream of bangs until he’s forced to get off the messy carpet and storm over to the door.

“ _Go away_ ,” Mustafa bellows, opening the door. His blood run cold and the spin of the Earth halts.

Neville is right there- standing _right there_ in front of him. He’s a world apart from the hateful, merciless King he portrays between the ropes. No, he looks sincere- tentatively and unbelievable real. Right now, Neville’s more real than Mustafa has ever known him to be.

“Hi,” he says softly, and Mustafa feels as if he’s about to cry.

“I didn’t win,” Mustafa can only say, voice torn, and wipes his eyes with the back of his arm guiltily. He knows how awful he must look, eyes red, under eyes dark, complexion blotchy.

“I don’t care,” Neville says breathlessly, stepping inside and the door shuts with a gentle slam. Mustafa fleetingly thinks that Neville really is like royalty, so far away and incomprehensible, and yet so present and unapologetically regal. Beautiful to observe, but infinitely too far away to touch.

Yet, Neville is right here, within reach. There is a heaviness between them, as if each of them knows what comes next but is too terrified to make the first move. Neville’s breath is shallow, fist squeezed into a fist by his thigh, and he takes a tentative step forward, eyes blown and imploring.

Neville looks so wonderfully discomposed. Mustafa isn’t sure he’s ever seen the King look so unguarded. It sends a thrill through Mustata’s body and comes to a swirling rest in the pit of his stomach. There is a magnetic pulling force in the air between them, more profound than Mustafa has ever felt in his life.

“Why are you here?” Mustafa asks helplessly, “You said--”

“Forget what I said,” Neville says, eyes not leaving Mustafa’s. “You flew to me in a time of need, so let me do the same for you now.” He swallows vulnerably. “ _Please_.”

Mustafa’s breath hitches. He’s never heard Neville sound pleading, or even a few shades away from angry, or composed. But here, he sounds almost completely undone, as though the threads of his very being are coming apart.

“I don’t have a couch,” Mustafa tries for a joke, wryly.

Neville looks instantly anguished, somewhat scared, as if he believes he’s misread the burning atmosphere between them.

“I’m kidding,” Mustafa’s mouth twists into a lopsided smirk.

Amazingly, a smile splits across Neville’s face and Mustafa is surprised at the inexplicable happiness he suddenly feels that he is the one to make Neville’s face look so rarely and unreasonably beautiful.

Neither needs to make the first move because in the next moment, they’re stumbling backwards and Mustafa hears Neville’s back hit the door. They kiss urgently, Mustafa’s hands greedily roving under the hem of Neville’s shirt grip over the curvature of his broad hip bones. Neville gasps against Mustafa’s mouth, fiercely cupping Mustafa’s jaw, fingertips pressing white holes in the back of his neck.

“God, _Mustafa_ ,” Neville’s hoarse voice torn between pain and pleasure. “ _Thank god._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have stayed up to 6am finishing this. Worth it.
> 
> I really enjoy this chapter? I feel like the pacing might be a little fast but I would love your feedback all the same! Thanks for all your amazing support!!


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